Fates Tampered
by DMIwriter
Summary: In attempting to save his brother's life, Thoronas has unwittingly twisted fate itself, leaving the empire without a future Champion, and the Emperor's visions useless. What will be the outcome of his decisions?
1. Prologue Pt 1

This is a story that is covered in multiple POVs. If you don't like that type of storytelling then you probably wont like this. But I also am going to have only three to four main POVs, instead of dozens.

Also, please let me know if I should change the rating to M. I don't really think it's that violent, but I am fairly new here too.

Lastly, this is an alternate Oblivion storyline. A "What If" story.

**Prologue**

**Midyear 12, 3E431**

**3:45 pm**

Marcus Odinius emerged from the Golden Mare tavern and strode out into the bright colovian sunlight, letting the beauty of the afternoon sink in. Kvatch was indeed a beautiful city. The storefronts were warm and inviting, the people kind and sociable, the arena thrilling and frightening. The ideal Cyrodilic city. So unfortunate it was that it was business, not pleasure, that had brought Marcus here. Still, a good day ought to be savored, despite the circumstances. It would make the washing of blood from his hands less gloomy than usual.

Marcus took and deep breath and set forth into the city, meandering down the cobblestone streets, keeping his eyes peeled for his target, but also careful to draw too much attention to himself. He had spared himself from his usual tight fitting black armor. Though the enchantments that the Dark Brotherhood armor provided was usually a welcome benefit, he simply couldn't stand the thought of being trapped in the stuffy hot leather on such a nice warm day. And besides, he was skilled enough. He could complete his task without the aid of the armor. He was a Silencer after all.

The Imperial slowly made his way towards the arena, enjoying the walk. The smell of fresh bread wafted from elsewhere in the city and birds chirped overhead. What an excellent day indeed for a killing. He would have to thank brother Thoronas sometime. Had it not been for that mutt's lack of courage, Marcus would not have been given this assignment. Such a shame he might end up having to kill brother Thoronas as well. Pity, pity. But that's why you do what Sithis wants you to do when he wants you to do it. You simply don't say no to the Dread Father. And if you do, you pay. And it was now time to exact that payment.

Loud celebratory cheers and songs suddenly echoed down the street. Marcus started, shaken out of his trail thought, glancing over to see what all the commotion was about. There stood a man by the arena's gates, surrounded by an admiring crowd. Muscled and built, average height, and golden-brown hair, clad in the Kvatch raiment of valor. Glenthir, Grand Champion of Kvatch, beloved of the people, target of the Dread Father. Marcus withdrew his dagger. It shimmered in the bright sunlight, thirsting for blood.

"I'm sorry brother Thoronas," Marcus chuckled to himself. "But this was your own doing. I'll be sure to tell him that it was you who ensured his death as he bleeds out at my feet."

Marcus began to make his way forward raising his hand to cast a chameleon charm upon himself. He never did, however. For at that moment with a heavy thud, something slammed into his chest with a massive amount of energy, causing him to stagger back a few steps. He looked down surprised to see the shaft of an arrow protruding from his chest. He was aware of a spattering sound as crimson droplets began to stain the cobblestones. The world began to spin about him as the pain finally made it through the sheer amounts of adrenaline pumping through him. He clawed at his chest, screaming. His legs finally gave out and the ground rushed up to meet his face.

The last thing he heard were shouts of alarm as the city folk rushed forward to aid him. The last thing he thought was how foolish they all were.

**Midyear 12, 3E431**

**1:50 pm**

The noonday sun beat down on Glenthir's skin as a forty-pound sledgehammer beat down on his shield. The resulting shock sent him staggering into the arena wall and provoked a loud _oooh_ from the crowd. Glenthir quickly recovered as the burly orc brought his mighty arms, thick as barrels, to prepare for another swing. The sledgehammer missed its target a second time. Such a pointless weapon it was. Powerful, sure, but far too slow and weary to swing around. Glenthir himself preferred a good longsword or bow.

The hammer swung a third time, managing to graze Glenthir's shoulder, and planting itself into one of the pillars that dotted the arena. The stonework cracked, the pillar tilting haphazardly before crumbling in a plume of dust. Unfortunately, the orc remained unharmed by the rubble raining down on him. Fortunately, half the arena was now obscured in the resulting dust cloud. The crowd grumbled complainingly, unable to see.

Glenthir acted quickly, casting a life detect spell on himself. The orc's outline blossomed into existence, the purple sheen of the spell allowing him to see the opponent who could now not see him. He crept silently, making his way up to the orc, circling around behind him. The orc swung his hammer blindly, succeeding in nothing more than striking empty air. Glenthir withdrew his glass longsword, crouching, preparing for his next move.

He lept into the air, landing firmly on the orc's shoulders, who, not expecting such a move, staggered forward, falling face first into the debris pile. A loud _crack!_ snapped through the arena. The air was beginning to clear to reveal the orc lying motionless, blood pouring from an open wound in his head. Glenthir bent down to inspect the damage. The orc was still blinking, chest still rising and falling ever so slightly. Most likely in excruciating pain, but still alive. What an awful way to go.

"You fought well, Champion!" Glenthir shouted in a loud voice. "You die with honor!" And with that Glenthir took his sword to the orc's neck. "I was honored to fight you, rest well in Aetherius!"

He turned and began to walk back to the door of the underground bloodworks training rooms. The crowd applauded and cheered at the top of their lungs celebrating the continued victory of their reigning Grand Champion.

**3:30 pm**

Glenthir sat in front of his wash basin, cleaning off the blood and grime of the battle. The bloodworks was nice and quiet as it usually was after a battle, and Glenthir enjoyed the peace and solitude that came with it. Nothing was more calming than the cool subterranean air. He exhaled slowly, dabbing at a particularly stubborn patch of dried blood. A loud slam then echoed about the main training rooms, just outside his door. Footsteps could be heard descending the cold, bloodstained, stone stairs with haste.

"No sir, unless you are a combatant, you must head up to the main level! Sir!"

"Get out of my way!"

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you -" _Thud! _" Woah! Okay! Okay! Easy there!

"Listen, this is important, you understand? I'm going to do what I came here to do, whether you get in my way or not. But if you have your best interests at heart you'll stand back. Agreed?"

"Hey, I'm sorry, just let me go!"

"I said _do you agree_!"

Grumbling, Glenthir stood up and made his way out of his room to break up whatever it was going on. Hopefully not another adoring, overly-devoted, and crazed fan. He already had far too many of those.

Thoronas had pinned the lowly pit dog against the wall, using every single bit of his self-restraint not to hit the man.

"Hey, I'm sorry, just let me go!"

A fresh wave of impatience and fear flooded through Thoronas as the realization of just how little time there actually was hit him. "I said _do you agree!_" He yelled, attempting to ward off the faint wavering of fear that had invaded his voice.

A door swung open further down the training hall and a well muscled, well bloodied man emerged from it, making his way towards them.

"Thank the gods!" Thoronas sighed, dropping the pit dog who collapsed on the floor. He ran up to meet the combatant, who was now grinning widely, from ear to ear.

"Thoronas!" Glenthir shouted with joy "It's been quiet a while! Finally decided to give your brother a visit, eh?" He said, wrapping the smaller man in an embrace.

Thoronas shoved himself away from the hug, looking his brother straight in the eye. "Glenthir, you have to go. Now!"

"What?"

"There is someone on the way to Kvatch right now, and the sole reason of their visit is to stain the streets with your blood.

Glenthir blinked, taking the information in, not quite sure what to make of it. "Come now, even if this were true, I _am _the Grand Champion. Did you not see my fight earlier?"

"Brother, these people who are after you are not mere fanatics! They are assassins of the utmost skill. Even the best of your skill won't ward of an arrow to your throat when you're not looking!"

Glenthir began to pace, unsure of what he was hearing. His brother had never lied, and would never lie. Indeed, Thoronas's fear seemed frighteningly real. Yet...there was something all too odd about this. His brother had vanished a year ago "to make a name" for himself, he had said. Yet the darkness that now dwelled inside of his brother's normally bright and cheery green eyes was daunting. The grim expression that never used to exsist. He had seen too much death, felt too much pain.

"What has happened to you Thoronas?" Glenthir asked pained at the sight of his brother in such a state. "Even your armor screams of gloom and despair." he said, gesturing to the bound black leather armor his brother war.

Thoronas exhaled slowly. "Another story for another day. Glenthir you just need to get out here. I'm sorry, that's all I can say. Let me escort you out of the city, I have friends who can protect you."

Glenthir was silent for a long moment, in which he became aware of all the eyes of fellow combatants gazing at them, perturbed. At long last he nodded. "But," he added, brandishing a finger "You are going to have to explain yourself. None of this bodes well to me."

"And it shouldn't." Thoronas said, turning to make his way up the bloodworks steps.

**3:45 pm.**

Thoronas and Glenthir emerged from the lower levels of the arena into the bright afternoon sunlight. Dozens of city folk loitered about the arena entrance, even though the battle was long over. These were the kind of people that Glenthir could live without. Overly devoted fans that would camp out at the arena for days, just to be sure that they didn't miss his coming and going, even though they lived just across the street.

They immediately surged forward, mouths flooded with congratulatory word. Thoronas tensed, visibly stressed. "We have to GO! Glenthir, please!" he said, struggling to fight his way through the crowd.

"Please people!" Glenthir shouted "I'm tired, and not in the mood today!"

Non of them paid any attention. One even began to sing a song illustrating Glenthir's victory. Others joined in while some, not knowing the words, simply cheered.

"Damnit!" Thoronas shouted.

"I'm sorry, I'm trying!" Glenthir shouted out to his brother.

"Lie low, that man, dressed as a huntsman, keep your eyes on him. He doesn't know you know. Stay here and I'll handle him." and with that, Thoronas ran off.

Sure enough, a man dressed in hunting attire was walking calmly down the road, smiling widely, eyes fixed on Glenthir. He was indeed a huntsman, and he was coming for the hunted. The man withdrew a dagger, enchanted by the looks of it. Why did he feel this was all Thoronas's fault?

Thoronas scaled the nearest building he could and lay down on his stomach, ensuring none could see him from his hiding place. The Dark Brotherhood taught him the skills of concealment all too well. Now those skills would turn back on them and take out one of their own. Hopefully.

Thoronas attempted to steady himself as he aligned "brother" Marcus in his sights. It all came down to this. His betrayal boiled down to this one moment. This one shot. Attempting to steady his breathing, Thoronas nocked an arrow, pulling the string taught. If he missed, things would get ugly, and fast.

Marcus reached for a dagger sheathed at his waist and withdrew it. It gleamed brightly in the sun. Another hand he brought high above his head, preparing to cast his signature chameleon charm, the best of anyone in the Brotherhood. He had to take the shot now, or risk loosing him.

With one final breath, Thoronas released the arrow.

So that's that. I wrote this because I happened to have the free time. don't expect regular updates, some may come a day or two later, some may take a week or two. It all depends on my schedule.


	2. Prologue Pt 2

_A/N: _

**Arty Thrip:**_ No, not at all, the nit - picking is encouraged, it helps me improve. Just to clarify one thing though, Kvatch does have it's own arena, it was the only city besides the Imperial city to have one. _

**General: **_After this chapter, I'll cover Thoronas's back-story with the Dark Brotherhood. Then, I'll get into the game timeline._

**Prologue - Part 2.**

**Midyear 12, 3E431**

**4:00 pm**

Martin kneeled upon the cold flagstone floor next to the chapel altar, whispering a prayer to Akatosh, whose stained-glass likeness shined down from above. It had been another normal day, silent in the chapel save for the occasional shouts that managed to reach their ears all the way from the arena. The devoted servants of the Nine traipsed about, pursuing their usual activities, yet here knelt Martin, tortured by his corrupted past as a Deadric worshiper, and pressed down upon by some unknown anxiety that any thought of the future provided.

The doors of the chapel suddenly burst forward with a loud _bang!_ Several people rushed forward from outside shouting and supporting an apparently unconscious figure.

"We need a healer, NOW!" one of them yelled.

Oleta, the chapel healer, rushed forward to inspect the chaos. "What is it?" she demanded, calm and clear-minded.

"Arrow wound to the chest"

"Alright, set him down here" she said, gesturing to the closest small wooden pew. "_Gently, gently!" _She added, as they moved the man a little too haphazardly foe Oleta's tastes.

Martin got up from his place in front of the main altar and walked slowly over to the group in order to get a better feel for the situation. As he approached several of the citizens made way for him, allowing him to see the wounded in question. The man was an Imperial with darkish skin and charcoal black hair. His shirt had been removed to allow better access to his wounds, which were astonishingly sever for a simple arrow. His eyes were half opened, but unblinking. He looked very much dead.

"Sister Oleta," he said leaning in to whisper in her hear. "Pardon me if I don't know the art of healing as well as yourself, but is this man even alive?"

She responded with a short nod, casting a series of healing spells around the arrow itself. "Barely. He's got a pulse and he's breathing, but it will still be quite a miracle if he walks out of this chapel alive."

Nodding at this grim news, Martin pulled back, knowing that he could no further aid in Oleta's attempts to save the man's life. He gazed at the Imperial once more. Something about the man called to him, as if he was of utmost significance. It was almost as if this should not have happened, that an arrow should never have found itself buried in this man's chest. This man was important, he was needed, sometime later in his life he would be needed for a task far more grand and complex than any of them could possibly comprehend. Somehow, Martin felt as if his fate, and that of his nameless man, were irrevocably connected.

This man must live.

Oleta had healed as much of the wounds as she could without removing the arrow. Martin could see her mentally bracing herself as she wrapped both hands firmly about the small black shaft of the arrow. She exhaled slowly, then, in one swift movement, withdrew the arrow from it's meaty resting place. Blood immediately began to flow from the now open space and trickle down the man's sides. Oleta growled in frustration and several of the people who had brought the man in distanced themselves, repulsed.

"I need bandages!" Oleta shouted to no one in particular as she jammed her hands up against the wound in an attempt to stop the flow of blood. A fellow priest edged forward, dropping a small pile of bandages on the pew. Oleta grabbed all of them, wadding them up against the hole in the man's flesh. They slowly began to fade from white to red. Sweat began to trickle down Oleta's brow, furrowed in concentration as she murmured healing spells.

Marcus Odinius's life hung in the balance.

**4:35 pm**

** "**You know, I thought that I was finally done with you kinds of people," Count Ormellius Goldwine mused. "It had been so long since we have had violence outside of the arena. But, I guess it was inevitable, evil still haunts Tamriel, unfortunately, and it seems you are part of that evil."

They stood in the massive throne room of Castle Kvatch. Everything about the place screamed out a sense of grandeur and wealth, from the wine-red carpets, to the crystal chandeliers, even the statues that dotted the walls every so often. What a shame it was that Thoronas didn't have the time to take it all in.

In the adrenaline of the moment, Thoronas had made a foolish mistake. He simply wanted to get down and check to see if his brother had remained unharmed. In his haste, he had forgotten to check and see if anyone was watching as he climbed down off of his building and rushed towards his brother. Turns out a guard had seen Marcus crumple to the ground, arrow protruding from his chest, and then turned to see Thoronas climbing down the side of the building, arrow in hand. Obviously, he put two and two together. The next thing Thoronas knew he was being tackled by the guard as the word "Halt!" was being yelled into his ear.

Which brought him here, standing in front of Count Goldwine. The Count was normally a peaceful man, his snow white hair and careworn face, on most days, had been akin to that of a caring grandfather. Today however, it spoke more of wisdom and justice. Indeed, Thoronas could see why everyone adored their Count so much.

The count affixed his stern eyes upon Thoronas and asked, "Would you care to explain yourself?"

Thoronas gave a sideways glance to Glenthir, who stood next to him before responding, "I was attempting to save my brother's life sir."

"And what makes you think that he was in any imminent danger?" The Count retorted.

"The man I attacked was on his way to kill my brother, sir."

"Really? What was it that made this innocent man so dangerous then?"

Thoronas swallowed, having a feeling that he knew where the Count was going with all this, and he didn't like it. "He was not innocent, he was a member of the Dark Brotherhood."

"I see," said the Count. He paused to study Thoronas before he continued. "You mean to say that the filth of the Dark Brotherhood had infected the streets of my city?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you've taken care of that for me, have you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You see," said the Count, withdrawing a small pamphlet from within his robes, "That's interesting, because when my guards searched you, they found this amongst your personal items." He held it out so they could see. "May I read it?" he asked before reading it anyway. "The five tenants of the Dark Brotherhood."

Thoronas noticed Glenthir turn to look at him, but he didn't dare meet his brother's eye. The Count continued, "I found it a most interesting read, but I'm sad to say that it appears you've broken the fifth tenet: '_Tenet 5: Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis._'"

There was an uncomfortable silence that hung in the air. Thoronas broke it. "It's not the only one I've broken sir."

"Oh?" the Count replied.

"I've also broken the third. '_Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.' _In fact, it was that one that landed me in this whole mess to begin with, sir."

"Well then, it seems you've really gotten yourself into a mess. An enemy of the Dark Brotherhood, an enemy of Kvatch, and an enemy of the Empire. I have to admit, that's quite a feat. Either way I cannot risk having someone as dangerous as you within my city walls, Thoronas. You will be held in our dungeons for a day or to, until transport can arrive from the Imperial City. You will then spend your days in the Imperial Prison, until they see fit to let you out. So enjoy your stay while you can, I have to admit, our dungeons are actually fairly nice. Indeed, more son than those of the Imperial city."

The Count motioned to the guards who promptly grabbed Thoronas by the arms and marched him off toward the doors leading down into the dungeon. He took a final glance over his shoulder at his brother. Glenthir stared at him, a mixture of concern, confusion, and anger painted across his face. Hopefully Thoronas would be able to explain this entire mess to him one day.

**5:24 pm**

Oleta kneeled in front of the pew, a pile of sodden red rags at her feet and a mortally wounded man in front of her. She held her bloodied palm just above the last of the wound and muttered one last healing spell. The man's skin rushed together, forming a seamless and scar-free expanse of unblemished flesh. Oleta sighed. "That's going to have to do it."

Most of the remaining city-folk stood further back in the chapel, looking on in silence. A priest walked up and made to throw the soiled rags away. Martin looked on, still concerned by the odd but undeniable sense of importance that seemed to surround this man, a man he had never seen before in his entire life.

Oleta bowed her head low over the man as the same Dunmer priest who had gathered together the rags, shepherded the onlooking citizens out of the chapel, telling them they had done all they could do, but that space was now needed. Silence filled the chapel as Oleta put her head to the man's chest, listening for steady flowing of breath or pumping of blood.

After a few moments of this, she looked up and addressed him. "Martin, I need you to do me a favor.

"Yes?" he responded, readying himself to go fetch a potion or a blanket.

"I need you to go prepare a place in the graveyard for this man."

A wave of dread hit Martin. Tamriel needed this man, how he knew this he was unsure, but he was certain that Tamriel would need him in the coming years. They needed a hero to guide them through the coming storm.

Yet, there lay their hero. Dead.


End file.
